


I Want Everybody's Eyes On Me

by putconspiraciesinit



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Political RPF - US 19th c.
Genre: 1796 US Presidential Election, 1800 US Presidential Election, 19th Century Slut Aaron Burr, Age Difference, Betrayal, Character Study, Exhibitionism, F/M, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Invention of Open Election Campaigns, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Religious Conflict, Sad Ending, Size Difference, Sleep Deprivation, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 05:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putconspiraciesinit/pseuds/putconspiraciesinit
Summary: Aaron Burr gets high off attention and praise, and gets off on it as well.Thomas Jefferson is very...Thomas Jefferson about this.





	I Want Everybody's Eyes On Me

Various admonishments regarding the cardinal sin of Pride had made up a good chunk of all the dialogue that had been spoken at all to Aaron Burr throughout his childhood. It was a deadly sin to find the slightest good in oneself, to congratulate oneself on even the smallest of things; it was always said to Burr that any good he had, if indeed he had anything beyond wickedness and sin inside him, was not his own, but God’s; to congratulate himself was akin to taking credit for God’s work, and it was utterly unacceptable. Punishable by various unpleasant things.

But was it really Burr’s fault? Another good chunk of every word spoken to him was comprised of praise regarding his looks. First he was a particularly angelic baby, then a very handsome child, then a perfectly un-awkward adolescent, then practically from the moment he turned fifteen, an _ungodly_ attractive young man. How was he _supposed_ to react when nearly everybody he met who was not somehow related to him by blood inevitably gushed over it? How pretty he was, how his eyes sparkled like diamonds, how it should be a sin just to have such a body…

When most of what you hear growing up is how horrible and irredeemable you are, it’s hard not to grow addicted to praise.

And Burr sought it _shamelessly_ . Mastered the art of trying but not _looking_ like he was trying. To everybody else, he seemed just naturally suave and charismatic, and it just felt _normal_ for someone like him to look immaculate, not one hair out of place, cheeks always a perfectly even rosy shade, never a single visible flaw anywhere. In reality, it took him hours upon hours to perfect his appearance. This was part of why he rarely slept; he had no time to sleep, not when he could be spending all of it with _people_ . People who would _look_ at him. Yes, that was it; being looked at. Whether they were in admiration, eyefucking him, glaring daggers at him, or even simply listening to whatever he was saying--he frequently had quite a bit to say, and had utterly perfected the art of subtly making everybody within earshot listen--it was a nice feeling.

He had first noticed it in college, when he had to go in front of the class to say or present something or other. Other students had described how terrifying it was to have so many eyes fixated on oneself. Burr had fully expected their descriptions to do the experience justice. The second it happened, the second he saw them all looking at him, however, he was unsure of how anybody could find such an experience unpleasant. From then on, he had sought opportunities to relive it.

The first time Burr had laid with anybody, his partner had been so maddeningly slow and gentle with him he was actually fairly certain he wouldn’t have been able to reach his climax from the actual physical sexual act taking place. But then Bellamy had just had to go and open his mouth and start talking, cooing and fawning over Burr like a pet or a prized possession, all “such a good boy” this and “sweet little thing” that and “God really did make you perfect,” and Burr had been very young at the time and therefore still allowed to claim he had peaked prematurely without having had his cock touched due to being a hormonal adolescent boy, but he knew it was really the words that sent him over the edge.

Burr knew he was a terribly vain man. In the name of spiting his family, he made no effort _not_ to be vain. So what if God made him inhumanly beautiful? _God_ wasn’t the one missing hours of potential sleep to maintain that inhuman beauty. _Aaron Burr_ was. And so, he would damn well take pride in it, potential afterlife consequences be damned. He had already done so many things everybody seemed to understand were unforgivably sinful (mostly with his fellow men); if Hell was real, then Burr was as damned as any already. He had every right to enjoy his time on Earth.

Of course, it was only logical that Burr continued to seek attention and praise in bed. It was a different kind of attention, and less public, but who--besides God, whom Burr was really starting to doubt even truly existed--ever said sex had to be strictly between _two_ people? In sex, as much as in almost everything else, Burr found that the more people were there and the more _he_ was at the center of it, the better. Sometimes there would be more people than he could count on two hands involved, and the things they’d do to him were hot, but the way that many people would practically line up just to get a turn with _him_ was infinitely hotter.

He found, frequently, that the best way to make people like you was to be only as assertive as absolutely necessary. Being too passive about everything irritated people, but being too aggressive actively pushed them away, often with the added bonus of making them resent you. The best course of action was to submit, but not to the point of unresponsiveness. This was the case in conversation; Burr asked more questions than he answered, going with whatever the other person wished to talk about and commenting with very convincing but usually fake enthusiasm on their stories (there was really nothing people loved more than to be listened to), unless they obviously wanted him to choose the direction of the exchange.

It was as much the case in sexual situations. Burr found there was something intoxicating about submitting to another person entirely, about letting people--often random strangers--take control and have their way with him. The praise, or degradation, whichever whatever partner at the moment preferred to administer, really did feel wonderful. After Theodosia had figured this out, she had never passed up a chance to take advantage, especially in public, which of course only got Burr even more hot and bothered. Theodosia, of course, picked up on the exhibitionist aspect of his apparent fetish for praise as well, and being a lawyer, Burr was one-hundred-percent certain that several of their exploits made them technically guilty of public indecency (not, of course, that either of them cared).

When Burr had first met Thomas Jefferson, he had already been a bit flustered, though of course he did a spectacular job of hiding it, but when Jefferson had said something to the effect of having heard that Burr was a very skilled political campaigner ( _Thomas Jefferson_ had _heard_ of him!), Burr could really have just fainted right then and there. He would absolutely not allow himself to think of Mr. Jefferson sexually, of course. Nevermind that he was thirteen years older and all of a foot taller than Burr and nevermind that his hands were big enough to hold both of Burr’s wrists in just one of them and nevermind how powerful and important and _famous_ he was, it just couldn’t happen. Even Aaron Burr had to have some self-restraint with all the seducing.

On the nights that year when there was no one else in bed with him and he had to get himself off, Burr did _not_ think of Thomas Jefferson. Instead, he thought of the (small, but still) crowds he drew campaigning for the man. Pictured all those eyes on him. Sometimes, in these fantasies, instead of political campaigns, Burr was doing… other sorts of things up on stage, with fifty to seventy or so people watching him do them. He didn’t _have_ to imagine Jefferson was among those people, if he imagined enough people.

Even after the first betrayal, Burr remained, on some level, a bit smitten with Jefferson. After that taste of what it felt like to be in Jefferson’s circle, Burr’s usual socialization habits just didn’t feel quite as fulfilling anymore.

Thinking back, Burr should have known something was horribly wrong from the way Jefferson wooed him back, four years later.

There was nothing professional or curt or impersonal about it. He had none of the politician’s charm he had exercised in their first meeting (Burr was very familiar with that style of conversing, as he was a lawyer and politician himself and generally considered to be good at it). No, this time Jefferson behaved...God forgive Burr for thinking it, but exactly as he would have behaved in Burr’s late-night fantasies had he dared to bring Jefferson into them. He crooned and called Burr the greatest electioneer in the world and put his gargantuan hands on Burr’s shoulders and on his back and said the party _needed_ Burr, that _he_ needed Burr, and Burr wondered if Jefferson intended the ensuing sexual tension or whether it was just wishful thinking on his part, but then all at once Jefferson had him cornered, his tiny frame crowded between a wall and Jefferson’s much larger body, and one of those enormous hands was caressing his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, and the other was just about _around_ his waist…

“You are perfect,” murmured Jefferson.

“Sir…” Burr breathed, _intending_ to sound surprised but instead sounding nothing short of desperate.

“My perfect little Burr.”

The next thing Burr knew, he was regaining consciousness lying on a divan (having apparently fainted) and thanking whatever deities may or may not exist that his overcoat covered his crotch.

The following year, lack of sleep and lack of food (he had no time to eat, and lack of sleep had taken away his appetite anyway) took their toll on Burr and he rarely had the energy to do anything extra outside of his incredibly busy campaign schedule. That meant that most parties and orgies were out of the question, as was whoring in general. This time around, however, Burr had no qualms whatsoever fantasizing about Jefferson while touching himself. Usually, the general story involved Jefferson doing unholy things to him on a stage in front of hundreds of people. He definitely did _not_ imagine this during actual campaign events wherein he really was on a stage in front of hundreds of people. (He absolutely _did_ imagine it during campaign events in front of hundreds of people.)

By the time the election finished and the second betrayal happened, Burr could barely walk anymore. He had resorted to using various padding in his underclothes to mask how emaciated he was, and copious amounts of makeup to mask his sheet-white complexion, and he had gotten rather good at the art of simply ignoring the overwhelming urge to pass out that came with shifting from a sitting position to a standing one--or even a relaxed sitting position to a more proper sitting position, but it was really going to take everything in him not to just keel over and die at the inauguration.

  
When the day finally came, Burr desperately wished the crowds would all leave, that people would stop _staring_ at him, stop talking about him, stop noticing he even existed. For the first time in his life, Aaron Burr wanted nothing more than to be alone.


End file.
